2 WOOD NOTES WILD. 
the birds are considered in every other point, when we 
come to their music, — that is, to the very life, the spirit, 
—we must take our choice between silence and error. 
A modern English writer says, for example, “There is 
no music in Nature, neither melody nor harmony.” 
What is melody but a succession of simple sounds dif- 
fering in length and pitch? How then can it be said 
that bird-songs are not melodies? And if melodies, 
that they are not music? A melody may be of greater 
or less length. I think we shall find that the little 
bird-songs are melodies, contaming something of all we 
know of melody, and more too; and this in most ex- 
quisite forms. 
The writer just quoted observes further that “the cuc- 
koo, who often sings a true third and sometimes a sharp 
third or even a fourth, is the nearest approach to music 
in Nature.” I am not sure how it is in England, but 
with us the cuckoo’s skill is slight for so wide a reputa- 
tion. Of all the songs of our birds, his song has per- 
haps the least melody. It is as monotonous as it is 
protracted, hugging the tonic all the way, save an occa- 
sional drop of a minor second, the smallest interval in 
our scale. The cuckoo of New England never sings a 
third of any kind. 
“No music in Nature”! The very mice sing; the 
toads, too; and the frogs make “music on the waters.” 
The summer grass about our feet is alive with little 
musicians. 
